


Sing It Out With Me, Then Let It Go

by catefrankie



Series: More Economic [2]
Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Drama Club, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Canon-typical Cursing, Enemies to Friends, F/M, but with significantly less animosity than canon because there is 100 percent less murder, if canon is the movie, is there a mystery or can cate just not write? no one knows, oblique references to canonical past abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 15:13:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9663086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catefrankie/pseuds/catefrankie
Summary: Part two in the high school teachers AU.  A multi-chapter enemies-to-friends piece with a large supporting cast.  Far too ambitious for the writer.





	1. Chapter One

Logan is always performing. She knows that. It was one of the first thing she noticed about him, one of the things that turned her off. She’s known attention whores before, known people who will do anything to entertain, and while she doesn’t and will never understand it, it’s not exactly what her problem is here. No, her problem is that he’s practically artificial. Nothing gets displayed except on purpose, his every minute gesture and eyebrow quirk are meaningful, everything right on the surface because he’s allowing you to see it. There’s a lot there, yes; if you blinked, you might miss something, but the message you’d be missing would be one he’d carefully crafted. She’s used to watching him lazily, disinterestedly, because she knows she’s not going to find any hints to hidden truths unless he wants her to find them, and really, where’s the fun in that? 

Now, though, his face is perfectly open. His eyes are crinkled, his mouth quirked up at the corner. He runs his fingers through the hair by his ear, his smile becomes bashful. Veronica thinks she’s never seen him quite so genuine, and the incongruity is a little bit off-putting. He’s almost…defenseless. 

“Mr. Clemmons,” she says, raising her hand. 

At the end of the conference table, Clemmons sighs. “Veronica, you’re a teacher now. You don’t have to raise your hand at faculty meetings – and you really don’t have to interrupt me.”

Veronica blinks at him, innocent. “Mr. Clemmons, Logan is texting his girlfriend.”

Logan’s doesn’t bother looking to Clemmons for forgiveness; instead his eyes snap away from his phone to meet her stare. She watches as his guard goes back up. Of course, Logan’s guard is pretty much the opposite of any normal person’s – narrowed eyes and stiff bearing – instead, Logan raises an eyebrow, his posture impossibly becoming even more languid than it was before. He looks like he should be wearing an evening gown, smoking a cigarette in a long spindly holder, stretched out over a chaise lounge. He even kind of looks like he would know what a chaise lounge is. “Veronica,” he says, perfectly duplicating Clemmons’ exasperated tone, “you’re a teacher now. You don’t get brownie points for ratting out your peers.”

“I just thought you should be paying more attention to the new janitorial schedule,” she returns sweetly.

He grins and raises his voice to address Clemmons without breaking eye contact with her, “Van, I assure you, I’m giving the janitorial schedule precisely as much attention as it deserves.”

Veronica shoots a look across the room at Clemmons, who is glaring at both of them. “I’m relieved, Mr. Echolls,” he says, drily. “Now, if we could move on, there is the issue of Ms. Keller, who has had to…”

Logan kicks her under the table, hisses, “Journalism.”

“Shut up,” she mutters, shifting in her seat to more fully face the principal.

“I’d just like to set the record straight.”

“I don’t care.”

“I wasn’t texting my girlfriend,” Logan announces, raising his voice enough that she automatically shushes him. Three weeks into her first job at a school, and already the teacher instincts are planted _deep_. He leans towards her, whispers, “I don’t _have_ a girlfriend.”

Veronica rolls her eyes. “So? Is all womankind supposed to rejoice that you’re free and on the market? Because from what I know of you, I think there’s much more grounds for us to celebrate that we’ve been smart enough to escape your clutches.” 

He laughs, a short, silent, huff of breath. She side-eyes him. He looks positively delighted.

“You enjoy this too much,” she mutters.

He gasps. “You’re telling me you don’t enjoy our little talks?” 

“It’s a faculty meeting, English. What’s to enjoy?”

She sees him shrug out of the corner of her eye. “Ask me who I’m texting,” he suggests.

“And why would I do that?”

“I dunno, as a demonstration of trust.”

She snorts. “That’s likely.”

“Okay then,” he says, unperturbed, “why don’t you think of it as a joke? _Knock knock. Who are you texting? Why thank you for asking, Veronica Mars, let me tell you!_ ”

“Okay, knock knock.”

He sighs, says in wounded tones, “You know that’s not how it works.”

She ducks her head so he can’t see her grin, pretends to focus on the planner which she brought in order to pretend to take notes. It clearly doesn’t work, because he lets out a soft “ah!” of victory. 

“Just ask me who I’m texting, and I’ll leave you to this absolutely scintillating presentation,” he says, wheedling. 

She glances right at Wallace, who lifts both hands into a “don’t look at me” gesture under the table, and then tries the ceiling, which is unforthcoming with solutions or convenient escape routes. “Fine,” she gripes. “Who were you texting?”

He beams, then slides with irritating grace and subtlety into the empty seat on her left so he can whisper in her ear, “I was texting _your_ girlfriend.”

“Oh my god,” Veronica groans. “What is it, 2005? Seriously, English, who the hell let you teach high school?” 

He just laughs, breathily. In her ear. She shrugs, violently, involuntarily, but he’s already ducked out of the way. On her right, Wallace is side-eyeing her. She mutters, “I don’t have a girlfriend,” not sure which of the men she’s addressing.

Wallace cracks a smile, then gives her a solemn nod and returns his focus to the presentation, which presumably has moved on to something to do with the academic calendar now on the overhead. “Obviously this leaves us in something of a predicament,” Clemmons is saying. 

“No girlfriend? Tsk,” Logan murmurs. “She’ll be very sad to hear that.” 

Veronica snaps her head around to eyeball him. “Where could you _possibly_ be going with this?” 

He bobs his eyebrows, and with a flourish turns his phone around to present her with the screen. What she can see of the chat is liberally sprinkled with GIFs and strings of emojiis, particularly from Logan’s text buddy, whose contact name reads –

“You’re texting _Lilly_?” 

He tosses the phone into the air and catches it so it’s facing him again. “Lilly’s texting me,” he says smugly. 

“And _why_ is Lilly texting you?”

He grins down at the phone, types something. “She heard I was in town, wanted to know if I’d like to catch up the next time she visited. Then we just got to talking.” He looks up at Veronica, says fondly, “She really is _terrible_ at answering her phone, isn’t she?” 

“Ohhh, no no no. We are _not_ having a moment.”

His phone screen lights up, he glances down and up again. “She says she can’t believe you didn’t immediately associate her with the title ‘girlfriend’, but she forgives you because what the two of you have is deeper than that.” He starts typing. “I’m telling her you’re being weird and possessive.”

Not without some effort, she feigns disinterest. “Am not. Lilly can have other friends, if she doesn’t mind the downgrade.”

Logan grins at that, eye crinkles returning. “You mistake my meaning, Journalism. You’re being weird and possessive about _me_.”

She accidentally lets out an offended squeak. 

“Veronica, Mr. Echolls.”

Veronica glances over. Clemmons is giving them his disappointed face, complete with arms crossed.

“Hey,” says Logan, casual and conversational, still not looking up from his phone, “how come she’s Veronica and I’m still Mr. Echolls?”

“Because I went to school here,” she tells him, “and you’re just an interloper.”

“Nah, I think it’s because of my superior respectability.”

“Veronica,” Clemmons interrupts, “we’re not even a month into the school year.”

She waits. He just gives her a pained look. “Yes?” she says.

“How is it you’ve managed to find yourself a nemesis and develop mutual revulsion so quickly?”

She gapes, waves indignantly at Logan. “I really don’t see how you can assume this is _my_ fault!” 

“As it happens,” Logan announces, “I’m very fond of Miss Mars.” 

“Wow, _thanks_ ,” she says. “That makes one of us.”

Clemmons raises his voice, “If you would both settle down, this actually concerns you.”

Logan places his phone face down on the table, kicks back in his chair with his feet up, and folds his hands over his stomach. “So sorry, Van, I shouldn’t have let her distract me.”

Clemmons looks at Logan witheringly, so perhaps his part in the disruption has been categorized accurately after all, and the lack of an outright scolding is just one of the many privileges accorded to donors, like the threatening of the new hires, and the texting during meetings. “We’re all just trying to get home, Mr. Echolls,” Clemmons says. “Just tell me where I lost you.”

Logan looks up towards the ceiling, squints. “I think it was after the devastatingly important and relevant-to-me janitorial plan?”

“Of course,” Clemmons says, deadpan. “To sum up, Ms. Keller has had to leave us.”

Veronica half raises her hand, then retracts it when Wallace elbows her. “Sorry, what did she teach?” 

“Drama,” Clemmons tells her. “And she’d already paid the royalties for the winter musical, so we’re in need of a new director.”

She waits. Clemmons’ impassive frog-stare was unnerving as a student, but somehow it hasn’t gotten any easier to sit through in the years since. She’s always reminded of past schemes, mischief that she and Lilly and Mac got into in their high school days, only a small percentage of which Clemmons ever found out about, so that as soon as you were faced with the stare you had to start running mental calculations for which of your many recent sins was most likely to have been discovered to avoid fessing up to the wrong thing and implicating yourself further. Mac was the best at it, since she kept a running tally of the probability of scheme implosion; Veronica was next best, since she had a knack for reading Clemmons. Lilly rarely bothered, and would just start confessing to outrageous crimes that none of them had ever committed. It’s a strange feeling of displacement, getting the stare at a faculty meeting when she doesn’t feel particularly guilty, and she can’t see how this particular situation could be said to concern her, since she doesn’t know any substitute drama teachers off the top of her head, unless – “You’re looking for a volunteer from the faculty?” Veronica says, letting her horror show plain in her voice.

“Not exactly.” Clemmons’ eyes shift slightly, and she realizes abruptly he hasn’t been staring her down at all. “Not any volunteer,” he says, “when we have a member of such a prestigious acting family on the staff already.”

_It’s Christmas._

Veronica turns slowly, irrationally afraid that if she makes any sudden movements Logan is going to get startled out of his natural reaction which she desperately wants to commit forever to memory. He’s frozen in the casual position he adopted a moment earlier, but after a long several seconds his eyes flick from side to side and her shit-eating grin makes him snap out of it. He removes his feet from the table and they hit the ground with a loud _smack_ ; his hands grip the armrests on his chair – his fingers go through his hair – his arms cross. His face is carefully blank.

“You can’t possibly be serious,” he tells Clemmons.

“Come now, Mr. Echolls,” Clemmons says. “Somebody needs to do it, and you are uniquely qualified.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“It’s the family business isn’t it?”

“Show business isn’t _genetic_ ,” Logan says, disdainful.

“Surely there’s some knowledge that gets passed down. Isn’t your sister up for an Emmy this year?”

Logan snorts. “The corruption of the nomination process aside, have you _seen_ my sister act?”

“Or his father, for that matter,” Veronica mutters, before she flashes back to _just my father_ and bites down hard on her lip, but Logan doesn’t seem fazed, is too wrapped up in the new horror of the possibility of directing a high school musical to be bothered by former traumas. He points at her. 

“Yes, thank you!”

Veronica sits up a little straighter. “I’m not helping you,” she informs him.

“You’re not hurting,” Logan shoots back. He looks to Clemmons, appealingly. “No one in my family is theatrically talented. It’s a fact. Even Miss Mars – the _press_ – admits it.”

“We-e-ell,” Veronica says, feeling the need to defend her identity as Serious Journalist, “I may be the press, but I’m no theater critic. If the academy has seen fit to award the Echolls dynasty with however many little golden men, it’s clear I’m just not cultured enough to understand.” Logan opens his mouth to protest, but Veronica presses on, warming to the inanity of the argument, “And besides – show business isn’t genetic, right?” 

Logan shrugs, but it’s more like a full-body shiver. “Very funny, Miss Mars. Now knock it off, if you please.”

“ _And_ ,” she continues, “since every other person in your family hasn’t been blessed by whatever fairy godmother could allow them to convincingly emote, statistically speaking, you’re probably _more_ likely to have the gift, right?”

He’s not looking at her, he’s watching Clemmons, probably looking for some sign of weakness. “Can’t you just trust me when I say I don’t?” 

“But have you ever _tried_?”

“And it’s just directing,” Clemmons puts in.

“It’s a _musical_ ,” Logan says, as if that explained everything. “Can’t Carrie do it?”

Carrie looks up from her phone and shoots him a look of offended incredulity. “I already have the chorale, and the band, and the glee club. I’ll arrange and teach the songs for the musicals, like always, but that’s _it_.”

Clemmons jumps on that. “She makes a good point, Mr. Echolls,” he says, reasonably. “Nearly everyone here runs some kind of extracurricular, a responsibility which you have heretofore somehow escaped.”

“I contribute in other ways!” Logan protests.

Veronica leans in, sensing victory close at hand. “Mr. Echolls, are you _seriously_ suggesting that you’ve paid for the privilege of not putting in any effort at this school?”

He spins towards her, spits, “Give it a _rest_ , Journalism, I’m not some corrupt politician you’re investigating.”

She sits back, lifting her hands in surrender, surprised by his vehemence, but perversely pleased to have gotten a rise out of him. Let’s see that self-satisfied smirk now. 

Logan stares at her for a second, breathing hard, then tears his focus away to address Clemmons. “Look,” he says, low, “I’ll pick up an extracurricular. I just don’t want the musical.”

“Everything else is taken care of –”

“Then why don’t we hire a new drama teacher? Or get a sub?”

Clemmons sighs. “Ms. Keller is returning in the Spring, which you would have known if you’d been listening instead of antagonizing Veronica Mars. And it goes against the district substitute teacher policy to pay a sub for more than eight weeks.”

“If it’s a matter of money –” Logan says, desperate.

“It’s not,” Clemmons says firmly. “I really don’t see what you’re so upset about, Mr. Echolls. Your Shakespeare module always receives the best evals at the end of the year.”

Logan just looks at him, disbelieving and mute. 

Office Assistant pauses taking the minutes and raises her hand. “What show is it?”

Clemmons consults a notepad at his seat. “West Side Story.”

“ _West Side Story?_ ” says Logan, at the same time as Veronica blurts out, “In _Neptune?_ ” Clemmons looks at both of them blankly.

Veronica glances at Logan; he looks too ill to speak. She looks back at Clemmons, offers casually, “Don’t you think it’s a little – on the nose?”

“On the nose?”

Veronica stares. “Racial and class tensions ring any bells?”

“Isn’t it just about forbidden love?” Clemmons says mildly, checking his notepad.

“…no?” Veronica looks around the table, takes in a roomful of stares ranging from blank to judgmental. She glances right at Wallace, who only looks puzzled, and realizes for possibly the first time that she’s surrounded entirely by people who didn’t grow up here and the grown-up 09ers whose trust funds had a clause about gainful employment. She laughs, shakily. “Trust me, this is a terrible idea. You should probably just skip the winter musical and count the royalties as a loss. You cast a bunch of Jets and Sharks in this town and somebody might actually get stabbed.”

History rolls his eyes, says disdainfully, “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

She stares at him, takes in the watch, the brand names, the perfect tan, and feels her blood start to boil. She tears herself away with some effort and addresses Carrie, “Okay, but the cast is like 90% male. Can the school drama club really pull that off?” 

Carrie shrugs, clearly already tired with the topic. “I’m sure Ms. Keller knew the demographic she was working with.”

Veronica’s laugh sounds a little wild even to her own ears. “I think Ms. Keller was thinking a little too much about demographic.”

“Miss Mars,” Clemmons cuts in, “perhaps if you’re so concerned about the message of the show, you can ensure it’s conveyed tastefully by codirecting.”

 _Danger, Will Robinson._ She turns back to face the principal, pastes a smile on her face, says as charmingly as she possibly can, “Nooo…”

“Are you sure?” he says, his stare condemning. “I’m sure the show would benefit from the combination of yours and Mr. Echoll’s differing approaches.”

“I have the paper,” she says, dismissively.

“The paper’s student-run,” says Logan. She glances at him in horror; he’s not even looking at her, but is texting again idly. He puts the phone down, smiles up at her. “You really shouldn’t be micromanaging or they’ll never learn, Miss Mars.” The omnipresent laugh hinted at in his eyes is cruel now, more than it was before. He’s not laughing at his own cleverness. He’s laughing at her.

“I don’t –”

“Mr. Clemmons,” he cuts her off. “Mr. Clemmons, I think having two directors is an excellent idea. We don’t want there to be a drop in production value with Ms. Keller gone, particularly since having these shows mean so much to the kids.” He places his forearms on the table, graces the assembly with a sweeping glance that somehow encompasses the room but skips over her. His voice raises to the warm, pleasing tone of the politician: “I remember when the theater program was going to get cut – I had students in my office in tears for weeks, talking about their Broadway dreams and how they’re never going to get into drama school now, and it just about broke my heart until I –” he pauses, amends, humbly, “we _found_ the funds to continue. And if we can’t replace Ms. Keller with somebody comparable, having two of us would really help to make sure we’re really covering all our bases and pushing each other to be our best.” He pauses. “To _give_ our best, for the kids.” 

_No theatrical talent, my ass._ Veronica scans the room. Clemmons gives a decided nod; all of the usual Logan-groupies are practically in tears. “But –”

“ _And_ ,” Logan says, checking his phone. His face splits in a triumphant grin, and he leans sideways into Veronica’s space. “Lilly thinks it’s a _great_ idea.”

“Lilly Kane?” Clemmons asks. At Logan’s nod, he snorts. “Well, then it’s clearly a recipe for a disaster. But I’ve more than made up my mind. Miss Mars, Mr. Echolls, rehearsals for your production of West Side Story start in a week. I suggest you figure out a way to get along, because if I hear anything about you two behaving like this in front of students…” he shuts his notebook, buttons his jacket, looks at them pointedly. “Well, English teachers are a dime a dozen, and the journalism position barely squeaked past the last cuts.” He nods to the assembled faculty. “Thank you, all.”

Logan pushes his chair out violently and is standing and across the room before Veronica can grab him. He stops next to Carrie, takes her elbow just as she reaches out with the other hand to grasp his shoulder. He says something in her ear; she stands on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Office Assistant, Statistics, and History have all gathered around in another moment; snippets of encouragement make their way across the room: “You’re going to do great!” “I think your English degree will really translate!” “I thought your sister was _great_ in Walking Dead.” 

On her right, somebody clears their throat. Veronica tears her eyes away; Wallace is looking at her with equal parts amusement and exasperation. “What just happened?” she asks him.

Without hesitation, Wallace answers, “You made trouble for yourself.” 

Veronica gasps, places a hand over her heart in faux-offense. “ _I_ didn’t make trouble!”

“Did you forget I was sitting right here?” Wallace needles her. “This _whole time_? You made your share, girl.”

Veronica huffs, maneuvers her way out of the conference chair and cocks her head in the direction of the door. Wallace nods, trails after her into the hallway. “He started it,” Veronica gripes, digging through her purse. 

“Not really,” Wallace says. “Either Clemmons started it, or you did, when you asked if you were going to be the first person to punch him in the face.”

“Hey!” Veronica says, genuinely alarmed. “Didn’t we unspokenly agree not to mention that?”

“Sorry,” he says affably.

“Besides,” Veronica says, “if I threatened to punch him in the face, how is forcing me to run a school department with him a reasonable form of vengeance? Won’t it just give me more opportunities to punch him?”

“Not if you want to keep your job.” 

Veronica pouts. “I don’t need this job,” she tells Wallace.

“Sure.”

“I could get _plenty_ of other jobs.”

“I know you could. I believe in you.”

She nods, can’t help but ask, “You teach some of the gym classes, right? What do you know about dance choreography?”

Wallace laughs. Veronica just raises her eyebrows at him impatiently. He shakes his head at her. “Hey, unless you want everyone doing the Cotton Eye Joe, you better look elsewhere.”

“Damn.”

“There’s a movie, right? Just – watch it on repeat?”

She snorts. “I guess so. Mac’s going to love that.”

“She can hang out with me, escape your crazy theater mania.”

“It’s not _my_ crazy theater mania.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, you didn’t start it.” He tilts his head towards the parking lot. “You heading out?”

She pulls a face. “I think I’m going to stick around. Try and catch my co-director.”

He laughs, starts walking backwards down the hallway. “Good luck, Mars.”

“Yeah, thanks,” she says absently, typing out a quick text: “ _Lilly, GIRLFRIEND, you and I are going to have words._ ”

“Remember you like this job!” Wallace calls back to her.

She looks up, yells, “I don’t like it _that_ much!”

“Yeah, but who am I gonna eat lunch with Monday-Wednesday-Friday if you get fired?”

She laughs. “Wow, I guess when you put it like that!”

He points at her. “Then remember that!” And then he’s around the corner and out of sight.

Her phone buzzes once; Lilly’s reply is only: “ _???_ ” 

Veronica glares at the screen, feeling put upon and slightly irrational. If Lilly wants to have an egregiously constant text relationship with Logan, that’s one thing – they grew up together, they have a history, and Logan was possibly not so intolerable when he was twelve, so that now all his asinine antics have the rosy tinge of nostalgia making them endearing instead of infuriating. But she could have gone the entire school year and barely have had to interact with the man except at faculty events and the occasional field trip. That would have been just fine, and she can see that once-solid future dissipating into smoke before her eyes.

She doesn’t like surprises. And she especially doesn’t like getting cornered. 

She hears several voices overlapping and glances towards the door; Carrie is the first one out, they make eye contact for a split second before Carrie’s gaze slides over Veronica as if she isn’t there. Veronica can feel her heart drop, but she sets her jaw and watches from the side as the rest of the faculty trails out, jostling one another and laughing. Logan is bringing up the rear; she watches as he lifts a hand in a salute which Carrie returns, then turns to walk the opposite direction towards his classroom. Veronica steps out, grabs him by the arm and yanks. “Hey, what were you _thinking_?”

He extricates his arm with a preciseness that speaks of pent-up energy. “What was I thinking?” He laughs, harshly. “What were _you_ thinking?”

She lets out a single, unimpressed “ _ha_ ”. “Don’t try that, Clemmons had already made up his mind before the meeting ever even started, he was going to rope you into it whether you liked it or not.”

He looks up towards the ceiling, hooks a hand behind his neck and leans sideways into the locker next to her. “Yeah, and you were _so_ sympathetic to my plight.”

“Oh my _god_ , so I wasn’t crying real tears at the thought that you might have to do more than teach Antony and Cleopatra and console passing students about their _Broadway dreams_.” He smiles at her, unmoved. She snaps, “You know, not everyone in life can adore you, there was no reason for you to drag me down with you.”

He pushes off from the locker he was leaning against, demands, “Did it ever occur to you that I might have some reason for not wanting to get involved with my _family business_ beyond – beyond whatever _your_ issues are.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“Come on, Veronica, it’s obvious.” 

She waits; he just looks back at her, as if it really was obvious. “So?” she says.

“Big New York journalist takes a barely full-time position at her hometown high school, which she clearly hates?” He gestures at her in frustration. “What are you even doing here? Wallace keeps trying to invite you to things and you always turn him down, you’re practically always the first person out of the parking lot as soon as the bell rings, you barely know your newspaper kids’ _names_.” 

“Did Lilly tell you that?”

“Lilly didn’t have to tell me anything.” He laughs, suddenly, and there’s somehow genuine humor there. He really, honestly, thinks some part of this is funny. “Look at it this way, Journalism: you have to show up to play rehearsals, but at least now you’ll have one more thing in your life to distract yourself from whatever it is that you’re running from.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” she spits. “You don’t know a thing about me or my life.”

He shrugs, looking harder and colder behind the smile than she’s ever seen. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we.” Looks down at his feet, and then up again to meet her eyes. “Next week practices are three to five, Monday through Thursday; auditions are this Tuesday, callbacks Thursday. You better fucking show.” He turns, stalks off, and is gone.

Her phone buzzes, she looks down. “ _Veronica??????_ ”

She sighs.

“ _Your ex is a psychotic fucking jackass._ ”


	2. Chapter Two

Veronica clears her throat. “Okay, before the bell rings I have one small-ish announcement.”

Her Tuesday/Thursday Journalism II class looks over at her curiously, heads popping up from behind computers and drafting boards. This is her second favorite class; they care about the material more than most of the other groups seem to, and they’re juniors, so less prone to chilly, terrified silence than the freshmen and sophomores are, but still with that extra _je ne sais quoi_ that the seniors lack – probably basic investment in what’s going on. This is the generation about to inherit the newspaper, and so she figures if anyone owes her any favors or would be willing to abase themselves to get into her good graces, it’s these kids. Bribing students to participate in your activities sounds like it’s a thing, and if the whole attempt ends in disaster and they hate her, then she has her first-favorite class of lovable seniors to fall back on for her work ego-boost.

When she sees most of the eyes on her, she holds up a flyer. The posters were plastered all over the school first thing the previous morning, but today this particular one migrated from the adjacent wall to her door, with the time of auditions circled in red – enough to motivate her to spiteful, if not enthusiastic participation. She’ll show up to auditions, and she’ll show up with a bunch of volunteers, whose names she knows just fine, thank you very much.

“This is the winter musical,” she says.

The class stares at her. The words _no shit_ hang unspoken in the air.

She huffs a breath. High schoolers are so judgmental. “The drama club will be putting on that glorious collection of tropes and stereotypes, West Side Story, and I’m bugging you about it because…” she pauses for effect, “I am taking on the task of co-directing.” 

The effect-pause may have been too much, because the stares abruptly become less judgmental and more horrified. 

She forces a laugh. “Come on, guys, don’t look so shocked.”

“But –” A hand goes up belatedly, and Veronica surreptitiously looks down at a scribbled seating chart on her desk which also includes a number of characteristics and tell-tale indicators, which would probably seem creepy if someone found it lying around. This girl always sits in the same spot, so she’s easy enough: blonde, sweet-natured, the physics teacher’s prodigy; Kara. Veronica nods. “Do you even – do theater?” Kara asks, concern etched on her face; it’s unclear whether she’s worried for Veronica or the show. 

“Don’t we _have_ a drama teacher?” someone adds, impatiently. Curly-haired brunette, never not wearing heels. Maggie.

“Ms. Keller is taking some time off,” Veronica tells them both. “I’ll just be temporarily involved for this one show.”

“Did you volunteer or were you forced?” comes a suspicious voice from the back. 09er hanger-on. Cameron. 

She makes eye contact, says drily, “I’ll never tell,” and the class laughs, exchanging delighted glances. Who knew, high school is full of manipulation, peer pressure, and overall misery for the teachers too. 

“Do you need help?” This is Claire, one of the most eager newspaper junior staffers; Veronica’s known her name since the first week. She points at Claire like she’s just given the winning answer; Claire perks up.

“Great question, Claire. My need for help is shockingly the main reason I brought this up. Since this is going to be _such_ a great experience, I’d appreciate it if there were a few familiar faces, to share the joy with.” They look wary; she tries again. “I’m not asking you to be in the show, I know that’s not everybody’s cup of tea, but we’ll need help with costumes, sets, lighting, stage managing, all that crap.”

Another hand: Ty, Cameron’s back row slacker buddy. “Will there be extra credit?” 

Veronica considers the ethical implications briefly. “If you audition, five points on your lowest quiz. If you end up committing to being on the cast or crew, ten points.”

“Five points just to show up?” Cameron says, skeptical. 

“You’re missing the point here, Cameron. Five points to show up _and make me look good._ ” They laugh; her desperation-induced honesty is apparently charming. “Which _means_ you have to take it seriously – it doesn’t count as supporting me if you make it seem like the journalists don’t respect the drama club, or whatever.”

Claire’s hand goes back up. “You said co-directing, who else is involved?”

Veronica grimaces inwardly. “Mr. Echolls.” She starts to add “from the English department” but bites down on it. It’s redundant. He’s been here for years, and he’s Neptune High’s darling. They all know who he is. 

Sure enough, immediately, the room buzzes. The girls elbow each other and giggle, the guys nod at each other in some kind of coded gesture of respect or admiration. Veronica wonders briefly, depressively, if her own second favorite class likes Logan better than they like her. 

“You and Mr. Echolls are doing the show?” Maggie reiterates, gleeful. “Together?”

“That’s right. It’s a pretty straightforward concept.”

Earnest-looking strawberry blonde with big glasses – Kaitlyn – leans forward. “Are you two friends? Is that why?” 

Veronica keeps her face blank. “Let’s just say he’s about as happy to be doing this as I am.” Somebody in the back of the room snorts loudly, which is of course followed by a handful of snickers. She adds, poker-faced, “Which is overjoyed, obviously. Couldn’t be more pleased. This is why I left New York, so I could break into the world of high school theater.”

The bell rings, overlapping with what she recognizes as pity-laughs; she raises her voice to be heard over the sound of two dozen seventeen-year-olds surging to their feet, “Auditions are today, immediately after sixth period in the auditorium! Be there or risk losing my love!”

A couple of them say “see you later” to her as they exit, and one of the basketball kids pats her on the shoulder and says kindly, “We’ve got faith in you, Miss Mars.” It feels patronizing, but he’s a full foot taller than she is, so she should probably be grateful he didn’t pat her on the head.

When the classroom is empty around her she looks down again at the roster cheat-sheet, intending to run through the names one last time to cement them in her head, but her eyes slide over to the flyer for the show instead. It’s just a messily drawn imitation of a fire escape with a stick figure in a white dress posed at the top, another stick figure hanging off ladder, with the name of the show, and the time and place of the auditions in bullet points on the side. The last bullet point reads “please, I beg you, do not sing something from the show, let’s not already hate the soundtrack by the end of day 1”. Despite herself, Veronica is grateful for that bullet point. When she moved in she never thought Mac poisoning her food would be something she would worry about, but since she watched the movie three times over the weekend, it’s beginning to seem like a rational fear. 

Her name isn’t on the sheet anywhere, which doesn’t surprise her, and neither is Logan’s, which both surprises her and doesn’t. With known patterns taken into account, she was half-expecting the flyer to read “The Lynn Lester High School Theatre Presents”, but then again, there’s probably time for that later. Plenty of time, since they’ve got three and a half months of rehearsals before the show goes to stage. Plenty of time, before Ms. Keller comes back and Veronica can ask her why the hell she disappeared for a whole semester, and then maybe key her car.

She glances at the classroom clock. Four hours until auditions. She slumps onto her desk chair and drops her head onto a pile of unfinished grading.

While she’s at it, maybe she’ll key Clemmons’ car, too.

\--

The auditorium is on the opposite side of the school from her classroom, a distance which wouldn’t have been daunting a week ago, but now, irrationally, feels like running the gauntlet. It’s after the final bell, and nearly all the classroom doors are open so students can mill around and approach teachers for missed homework or extra credit or brownnosing, but that means all the teachers look up as she passes by their door, and none of their faces are very friendly. It does feel a lot like the status quo, but that doesn’t mean it’s a _good_ feeling. None of these people were her friends, but they’d given her the time of day before. She pokes her head into the gym as she goes by and waves at Wallace, who doesn’t see her, but who is wearing a sweatsuit and blowing a whistle, and so makes her feel slightly better anyways. The oblivious shop teacher, Corny, does notice her, and waves wildly. 

It’s a truly impressive group of allies she’s assembled.

The room is half-lit, when she finally arrives, and there are a surprising number of students scattered throughout the room, mostly perched on the backs of unfolded auditorium chairs and sprawled in the aisles. The ancient piano player, still hanging on from Veronica’s own high school days, is seated at the piano on the edge of the stage, thumbing through sheet music and wincing any time there is a particularly raucous bout of laughter. 

Veronica scans the room, spots a number of her second-favorite-junior-class kids on the stairs by stage left; they wave at her cheerily and she smiles back. Academic bribery: works every time. She does a quick head count as she heads down the aisle towards the stage; thirty or so kids, with more trickling in, unfortunately and predictably heavy on the female end. She’s just turned around to count those hopefuls lurking by the entrance when she sees Logan, his broad-shouldered silhouette dark in the doorway. He blinks as his eyes adjust, and then he sees her, and his face goes blank. She lifts her chin, defiant, although he was the one who got her into this, and she’s unsure whether she’s rebelling against his expectations or playing straight into his hands. But she’s here, and showing up is the first step to winning.

“Excuse me?”

Veronica turns around. There’s a student sitting on the edge of the stage, looking down at her as if she doesn’t quite measure up. Veronica crosses her arms. “Yes?”

“You are…?”

“Mars, journalism teacher. Codirector.”

The girl rolls her eyes, whines with devastatingly perfect diction, “Naturally. I don’t suppose there’s any chance you volunteered for this?”

“Theater is my one true passion,” Veronica deadpans, wondering if the question will ever stop following her.

The girl’s eyes narrow. “Well, it is _mine_.” She hops off the stage, uses the momentum to walk over a chair in the front row and jump down in front of where Veronica’s standing, and sticks out a hand. “Alexis Hellinger, Neptune Drama Club President,” she proclaims, pronouncing the capital letters.

Veronica stares at her, shakes belatedly. “So I bet you’re thrilled with this turn of events.”

Alexis gives a loud sigh. “Ms. Keller leaving is bad enough, but it’d be _much_ easier if they just let the students run the show for the semester.”

“Who knows, maybe we’ll just be supervisory figures, give you guys your space,” Veronica says.

“ _Ugh_ , if _only_ ,” says Alexis, disgustedly. “But have you _met_ Mr. Echolls?”

Veronica grins, despite herself, glancing over her shoulder at where he’s greeting every single student with an enthused smile on his face. “Now that you mention it…” 

“Amateurs are the worst,” Alexis tells her.

Veronica pats her on the shoulder. “Chin up, Hellinger. I’m told acting’s in his blood.”

Alexis tosses her head, says, “ _Ha!_ ”, and with that, vaults over the front row and is gone, off to huddle with a small group of eclectically-dressed kids hovering in the wings of stage left, who are likely the rest of the drama club. Several of them shoot Veronica dirty looks, she waves blithely and they turn their backs on her. She glances over at her journalism kids for renewed strength; there’s more of them now, including six from her class of seniors even though she didn’t even mention the show to them, so their presence is both charming and unnerving. One seems to be conducting an interview of the group using the recording function on his smartphone; she can just make out the question, “what does it mean to you to be involved in school activities your senior year?”, and the others are taking turns answering, hamming it up in an endearing way. She’s smiling in their general direction, when she stills.

She looks left. Logan is standing in her row, staring straight ahead at the stage. “You showed,” he says, voice mild, possibly deceptively so.

She looks away, settles as casually as she can into the seat directly at center-stage. Doesn’t answer. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him shrug irritably, then he sits as well, three chairs down from her. Which is ridiculous, since they’re going to have to talk, or they _should_ try to talk, or something. She takes a deep breath. Her phone buzzes in her pocket and she does her best not to lunge for it, takes it out with a respectable amount of urgency. Lilly.

_Don’t forget, Veronica!!!!!_

She sighs. _Don’t forget what?_

A moment. Then: _PUPPY DOG_

Veronica snorts. That morning she got a 5:30am wakeup call from Lilly, who had been possibly still pleasantly tipsy from the previous night, having been at one of the interminable number of rich people functions she seems to get invited to, and then spent a solid eight minutes telling Veronica that Logan was really a giant puppy dog with whom Veronica could easily be great friends if only she stopped treating him like a cat, before Veronica could get a word in edgewise to tell her that she really needed to get in a shower before school. Lilly’s parting shot was a wailed section of Tonight which combined three different verses and still somehow managed to sound better than the original. “You sure you don’t want to take over for me?” Veronica had asked her, wearily. Lilly just cackled. “Drink some water, Lills,” Veronica told her, and hung up. 

She didn’t really expect Lilly to remember the conversation, let alone stand by her nonsensical advice, but apparently sober-Lilly still thinks it’s important information. She steals a sidelong look at Logan just as his phone goes off. He frowns, thumbs open the text, stares in consternation for a second before the corner of his mouth pulls up in a reluctant smile.

Veronica snaps her attention back to her phone, scowls. _Can you stop texting him while we’re in the same place???_

Lilly immediately sends her a string of emojis, most of them wailing. _How am I supposed to know where you both are?!!_

_We’re both at auditions!_

_Okay, I know that now, sheesh!!_

Veronica looks up. The students have mostly congregated in front of the stage, and are looking at her and Logan with mixed parts anticipation and trepidation. The piano player, too, has emerged from her sheet music. She glances towards her journalism kids for support, or some kind of clue, and instead gets caught in Alexis’s glare. Veronica raises her eyebrows; Alexis gives an eye roll that encompasses her entire person and clears her throat really loudly. 

Logan finally looks up. “Oh,” he says, looking at the assembled crowd. “That’s great. We all ready then?” 

“You’re supposed to give a speech,” Alexis growls.

“A speech?” Logan repeats. Veronica can’t tell if he’s actually at a loss or if he’s taunting her.

A short-ish girl with mousy hair that Veronica doesn’t recognize pipes up, “You give an address to the hopefuls, filling us with motivation and spirit, so that we are prepared to sacrifice our very lives for the arts, and glad to be horribly humiliated at any point throughout the audition process.” When he just stares at her, she adds, “You suck at this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan answers, waving her off, “thanks.” He stands, buttons the top button on his suit jacket – _good Lord, why is he wearing a suit jacket_ – and clears his throat. “Well,” he says with no small amount of self-deprecation, “as I’m sure you all know by now, Ms. Keller has thoughtlessly abandoned you, and the winter musical has been handed off…to me.” He pauses; two confused students start applauding and then stop abruptly, embarrassed; he smiles at them graciously. “Now, regardless of what rumors are I’m sure floating around, I don’t know anything about acting, so I’m just going to direct this like English class, but with more costumes. We’ll be looking at symbolism, and foreshadowing and shit. I might make everyone read through Romeo and Juliet together.” A half-hearted groan goes up, but nobody looks surprised. “It’ll be fun,” Logan says coaxingly. “And as for auditions, I have been to all the shows since I started teaching here, _but_ I will not be taking past performances into account. If you’ve never done theater before, well,” he puffs out his chest, “you’re in good company. Just do your best, don’t be nervous, all that crap.” He glances at the mousy girl. “Also the arts are worth dying for?” She rolls her eyes, but gives him a thumbs up. “Okay then! Shall we?”

The kids shift uncomfortably; several look back and forth between Logan and Veronica with open confusion. After a long, awkward moment of pretending he doesn’t notice, Logan glances sideways at Veronica, opens his mouth, closes it again. Finally, he gestures to her and sits down, silently. She heroically holds back an eye roll, stands, and smooths out her skirt. “Not all of you know me. I’m Miss Mars, the new journalism teacher, and I’ve been assigned as codirector of the show.” The students’ eyes flit back and forth again; several people look skeptical. Veronica tries again, smiling this time to indicate that everyone’s on good terms with everyone else, “Like Mr. Echolls I don’t have much experience in the theater, but I’ve interviewed a lot of people.” Looks of blank incomprehension. “So I know my way around body language and inflection,” she clarifies. A few nods; Alexis looks as if she’s heard blasphemy and wants to die. “Like Mr. Echolls said, don’t worry too much about this audition. We’re just looking for stage presence and the ability to hold a tune.” 

“And vocal range,” Logan puts in.

“And…vocal range,” Veronica repeats, maintaining her fake smile through sheer force of will. She turns her grimace on Logan. “Anything else, Mr. Echolls?”

“No, I think I’m about ready to go. If you are.”

“Of course.”

“Okay!” Logan cups his hands around his mouth, yells, “Clear the stage!” The clump of students disintegrates into the wings and the front few rows; Veronica sits, pulls out a blank notebook, and tries not to look extraneous.

Predictably, Alexis is the first person onstage; she announces her name in a voice which projects with exquisite clarity all the way to the back row, snaps her fingers at the piano player, and launches straight into “I feel pretty”. Her pitch is perfect, her hand gestures clearly carefully choreographed, although her imitation of a girl in love is perhaps too intense to appear anything other than manic. When she wraps up, Logan takes his head out of his hands to say, “Lovely as always, Miss Hellinger, but didn’t you see the instruction on the auditions flyer? No West Side Story today?”

She flips her hair. “This has been my audition song every semester for four years.” Logan’s eyebrows go up, but he seems to be out of words already. Alexis adds, “Also, you should know I’ve been in dance classes since I could walk.”

“Cool,” says Veronica carefully. “And what part were you hoping to play, Miss Hellinger?” 

Alexis just looks down her nose at them both, huffs, and then flounces offstage.

“Okay,” says Logan, and makes a note on his honest-to-goodness clipboard. “Next!”

Apparently the drama club reserved all the first audition slots, because they are subjected to a short series of the most stereotypical musical theater numbers imaginable. During the second “All That Jazz” in ten minutes, Veronica thinks she can actually hear Logan grinding his teeth, and for the first time she’s paradoxically grateful that both of them got strong-armed into this. She’s not happy that’s she’s there, but if she had to co-direct with someone other than him, someone who was there on purpose…well, it would have been worse. 

Following the last thespian is the mousy girl who told Logan he sucked; she announces herself as Heather Buttons, and performs a wickedly funny, if slightly flat, rendition of “Little Girls” from Annie. Veronica can already tell she is going to be wasted on West Side Story.

“And which part would you like to play, Miss Button?” Logan asks.

“I’m aiming high,” Heather says, mock-serious. “I’d like to be the _ooh-oodly-ooh_ girl.”

Logan hides a smile behind his clipboard. “Okay, if that’s a comment on the amount of decent female parts in this show, you know I didn’t pick it.”

“And _you_ know how much I care about this,” she replies.

“I do know,” he says, drily. “You’re here as a favor to me and I owe you.” 

She smirks, pops a hip. “Ooh – oodly _ooh_!”

He hits her with a finger gun. “Heard loud and clear. This show is a nightmare.”

“Your face is a nightmare.” She curtsies elaborately, exits at a graceful ballet-run. Veronica ignores Logan’s unprofessional snickering and puts Heather down for whatever comedic part they can drum up.

Next up are two of Veronica’s senior students from the basketball team, who requested a pairs audition so they could sing “Agony” together. Neither of them can carry a tune, but they spend the whole song tearing their hair, fake weeping, and eventually end by ripping open their shirts like in the movie. They receive a standing ovation from the students in the auditorium; Logan and Veronica both fight to keep straight faces.

Veronica asks, “Would you guys even be able to make rehearsals, given your responsibilities to the team?” 

Both boys shake their heads. “We’re just here to support the drama club,” one of them says cheerfully. 

Logan rolls his eyes. “Thanks for that, guys. Hope to see you on opening night.” They jump off the stage and exit down the center aisle to raucous applause.

The next two hours pass in a strange blur. No one other than Alexis tries to sing West Side Story, which is a mercy, but by the time they’ve heard everyone, Veronica is very tired of Wicked and Les Miserables. There are a few decent options for Maria and Anita, but casting the men is going to be difficult, given that most of their performances weren’t stellar and they need at least four solid singers for Tony, Riff, Bernardo, and Action. Just based on the numbers, they’re going to be spread a little thin on regular gang members unless they resort to cross-dressing, which would make Anybodys’s whole character kind of superfluous, or at least ironic. Veronica takes detailed notes and tries not to get too fixated on attempting to interpret Logan’s reactions to the actors she likes – they haven’t spoken directly to each other since he showed up, and she’s not sure they aren’t going to come up with two completely separate callback lists and then have a knock-down drag-out fight to see whose version wins. It might be simpler than trying to talk their way to an agreement.

After the last, warbled rendition of “It’s Quiet Uptown”, Logan stands, announces, “Callbacks will be posted tomorrow morning. If you get a callback for a lead, please show up on Thursday having prepared one of the songs which that character sings. If you do not get a callback for a lead and you feel this is unfair, I direct you to our drama club president, Alexis Hellinger.” Veronica almost chokes on the coffee which Wallace snuck in to give her; Logan ignores her. “Miss Hellinger will determine whether any complaints about directorial choices are valid, and bring those complaints to me. If in the last analysis you _still_ don’t get a callback for a lead, please show up on Thursday anyway to sing scales for Ms. Bishop and run through some dance combinations.” Logan’s jaw works, but he turns and indicates Veronica. “Anything?”

She clears her throat, sets aside her coffee. “This show has a large ensemble cast, people, so chances are if you want in, you’re in. Unless you can’t snap your fingers, in which case, please do everyone a favor and bow out now.” Half-hearted laughs; the kids are clearly as tired as they are.

“Alright,” says Logan. “We’ll see you in two days.”

Alexis leads everyone in an awkward round of applause for themselves, then the auditorium clears out, and, before Veronica is able to prepare herself for it, they’re alone.

She purposely doesn’t make eye contact as she listens to Logan retake his seat. They are still separated by three empty chairs, which is only becoming more ridiculous as the silence crawls along, interrupted only by the squeaking noise Veronica’s highlighter makes as she selects her final choices for callbacks. Peripherally, she sees that Logan is slouched over, chewing on his pen and looking intently through his notes which he’s holding far too close to his face.

Finally, when she’s run out of stalling tactics, she shifts sideways and holds her notebook out over no man’s land. He looks up, eyes the not-quite-peace-offering coldly, and then pulls a sheet out of his clipboard and trades with her, both of them stretching awkwardly to accommodate the space between them before settling back in.

He’s selected most of the same girls for callbacks that she has, has the same two guys down for Bernardo, and then has a list of five white boys, circled and without any characters assigned to them. She waits for him to say something about her painstakingly organized bracket, and when he doesn’t, asks, “Do you just want to have all the guys audition for Tony, and figure out the other parts once we have him?” 

He looks up. “Half for Tony, half for Riff?”

“Which half?”

He grunts. 

After a moment, she tries again. “We could ask them to prepare two songs. One serious, one comedic.”

“Sure.”

She makes a note, adds, “You don’t have Camila anywhere here.”

“All head voice, no belt.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, Mr. Amateur, that sounds like a question for Carrie.”

“Sofia was better,” he says stubbornly.

“Today, yeah, but her song was more mezzo-soprano. Depending on how far her range goes, she might have to be our Anita.”

“Fine, put them both on the callback for Maria and we’ll see how it goes.” He looks up from her list. “You don’t have any Officer Krupkes?”

“Given our surfeit of women, I was thinking Heather in a mustache?”

He raises an eyebrow. “We need to have at least one other option, or I’ll get accused of nepotism.”

Veronica doesn’t ask why, even though not knowing is already killing her. “Alexis in a mustache?” she suggests.

Logan snorts. “I had her down as Assistant Director, but she’s literally not going to be happy no matter what.”

"We could give her a solo in the ensemble section of Somewhere?”

He looks skeptical. “She’d have to play it _really_ sincere, it already tends to the overwrought.”

“I know. But she does have a good voice.”

“Fair.”

“And you’ll tell her about the assistant director thing?”

Logan snorts, says drily, “I don’t think she likes me – so you two should have no trouble building a rapport.”

“Fine,” Veronica says, refusing to be baited. “And who for our alternate Krupke?”

“Gavin?”

Veronica grimaces, but makes the note. “And what are we going to do for crew? Props and costumes and tech and so on?”

Logan leans across the seat to hand over her notebook. “Well, we have some student signups, but from what I can tell, Ms. Keller was a bit of a micromanager. She did everything the kids couldn’t do herself.”

“We’re not going to do that,” Veronica says, halfway between a question and a decree.

“No,” he agrees. “But I know someone who could help with building the more difficult set pieces like the fire escape, and I can think of a couple people who would know where to find prop guns.”

Veronica eyes him suspiciously, adds, not to be outdone, “I know somebody for costumes, and Corny will lend a hand with other props and set, if I ask.”

“Know any choreographers?” he counters.

“No,” she shoots back, “do you?” 

He looks down at his clipboard. “Alexis?”

Veronica considers. “There’d be too many jazz hands.”

“Okay,” Logan says, clearly becoming impatient. “So we use a youtube video for the callback and we’ll deal with the rest…later.”

“Do you want me to type and post the callbacks? Since you did the auditions flyer?”

“That’s fine. Just read me back what you have?”

Veronica huffs an annoyed sigh, but obligingly reads out the compromised list of names. At the end, Logan nods decisively, and without saying another word, gathers up his things and walks out. Veronica recovers from her insulted shock just as he reaches the doorway and calls after him, “We’re going to have to talk to each other.”

He pauses, turns to face her. “I did talk to you. And now I’m leaving.”

Well, it could have gone worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does Neptune High employ a full-time journalism teacher? Who knows! Are high school auditions like that scene in HSM? Let’s hope so.
> 
> There was going to be more to this chapter, but I'm very tired.
> 
> I would apologize for all the musical theater jokes, but honestly, it's probably only going to get worse from here.

**Author's Note:**

> I know there’s some kind of rule that you should never post the beginning of a story unless you’ve already written ahead a good ways, or else there’ll be forever between chapters, but let’s face it: until recently, my record was one fic a year. There’ll be forever between chapters no matter what. But if you ever want more content from me, you can always ask for my paper on the Heideggerian relationship between man and truth...
> 
> After I got so much lovely encouragement to continue the last fic, I wracked my brain for what in my bizarre life experience could possibly be accessible enough to build a sequel around. Seeing as I have done nothing with my life but climb further and further into higher ed, there isn’t a lot to choose from. But then I remembered I was involved in a homeschool drama club for four years, and nothing says “relatable” like a bunch of fifteen-year-olds doing Shakespeare and getting really psyched about the duels. So, my high school teachers AU has become a high school teachers drama club AU, with a little help from everybody’s favorite deus ex machina, “district policy”. The fact remains, however, that not only do I not teach high school, I’ve never actually even been to high school. Pardon a former homeschooler’s ignorant mistakes. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Follow me on tumblr, if you’re into that](%E2%80%9Ccatefrankie.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)


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